


Afterlife,

by ExasperantMadman



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Date night with the simulacrum, I guess????, Introspection, Other, Revenant Being Revenant (Apex Legends), Some Fluff, Some character growth, Somewhat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24474082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExasperantMadman/pseuds/ExasperantMadman
Summary: I think I saw what happens nextOh, it was just a glimpse of you, like looking through a windowOr a shallow seaCould you see me?
Relationships: Bloodhound/Revenant (Apex Legends)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eymelee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eymelee/gifts).



> So uh, this was supposed to be something else at first based off of [ this song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_Mu1RNG0fc) but it just kinda gained a life of its own and heavily derailed from it. 
> 
> I still do think it fits them, but yeah,,
> 
> First chapter is mainly angst, second chapter may be comfort? Who knows? I have no self-control so I can't guarantee it.

_"Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence."_   
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, _Manon Ballerina_

* * *

To say that he'd stopped obsessing over Bloodhound after losing against them in countless fights would be an absolute lie. If anything, Revenant is now more sure than ever that the losses and personal executions did nothing but further fuel his fascination with the other. 

Unfortunately, his mind has been growing more restless after that one fateful encounter. Bloodhound’s words replay more often than his own thoughts through his processors, unable to fully comprehend their importance. And yet he clings to their literal meaning like they were the answers to his troubled existence. They'd never bring him any salvation, no, words could never be enough to haul him out of purgatory but Revenant will delude himself into believing them his lifeline, somewhat keeping him afloat through the sea of murky dread plaguing him.

It comes as a pleasant surprise when the other accosts him outside the most recent match, inviting him to partner in future games. Revenant accepts of course, though not without playing the unimpressed card first, making it a scene to show his disinterest and saunter away nonchalantly; much later in the night, when most legends return to the comfort of their chambers, Revenant intrudes upon the hunter's quiet solitude to accept, reprimanding Bloodhound for taking so long to realize the perfect chemistry they share. 

One would think that he'd settle now, with this new liberty to closely observe the other without risking death; but his stalking habits increase tenfold, extending outside matches and to wherever he can follow the other. The hunter never seems to notice him, though something tells the simulacrum that they're quite aware of his proximity, given how they always seem to find themselves alone, each encounter uncomfortably intimate: late nights spent in the common room, twilights spent into the frigid wilds, observing a frozen ruin that leaves his curiosity gnawing at him for weeks afterwards; quiet prayers, whispered for a deity he does not care to know and yet, he listens to the other talk to nonetheless. 

And if Revenant ever creeps closer, lingering just out of arm's length from their praying form, Bloodhound does not say anything.

* * *

Trailing the other outside trials had become somewhat of a habit for him. He thought it easy, no big feat for someone with so many years of subterfuge, assassinations and stealth under his belt but - Bloodhound turns out to be quite a challenge to track when they do not want to be found. This fact of course, besides infuriating him, only serves to make him redouble his efforts and use skills and techniques he hasn't used in centuries when... _he still believed himself to be alive_.

When he fails to find them after his seventh attempt, Revenant becomes acutely aware of the passage of time. 

A month - an entire month just, gone. 

He doesn't lament the time he missed, the games and bloodshed wasted, but something does bother him; an ugly little trickle of concern slithers past his alloy panels and buries itself into his non-existent heart - it only grows and grows with the passing of days until it consumes him alive. Thus, one late night, after a gruelling loss, he ambushes the days' winner - Mirage, poor Mirage - in his quarters, wrestling his disoriented, terrified form into submission. He demands, threatens with violence and shakes their snivelling form until the skin bag is no more than a bumbling incoherent mess, devoid of answers. The ruckus he caused doesn't go unnoticed, for several neighbouring legends burst in the room, attempting to pry his skeletal frame off the miserable man. Revenant ignores their threats of action against him, shoving past to isolate himself in the cold confines of his bare room. 

Later into the week and into his self imposed exile, a note slips through the vent in his room. When the rattling noises of the retreating drone fade back into silence, Revenant reads the cryptic words upon the greyed paper and plans his course of action.

* * *

Roaming the cold woodlands of Talos alone is somewhat strange; even stranger how this whole time he's never once noticed the presence of the village with living skinsuits right outside the borders of their playground. Of course, this thought only makes him ruminate on the many other things he hadn't noticed, such as how private Wraith is in regards to all aspects of her life, or how Crypto could potentially ruin every single one of them with the amount of dirt he could dig up on even the most innocent of them all. But then again, without either of them, he wouldn't have gotten this far in his hunt for the hunter. 

They do have their uses, the skinsuits. And perhaps, Revenant guesses, it's not too bad to have _some_ people on his side.

Somewhere in the woods a branch snaps, overburdened by last night's snowstorm. Occasionally, the pitter-patter of prowlers stalking through the snow brings him out of his trained gaze on the village ahead, causing him to shift his attention to the potential pests. This whole place is bothersome - snow makes for the worst environment for him to blend in, what with his red chassis standing out like a sore thumb. Then there's the cold, something that would normally trouble only living beings but some unconscious part of him cringes, a painful memory buried deep replaying through his mind, reminding him of just how much he despises the numbness seeping through his frigid limbs. And yet he lies, buried all but for his ghastly face beneath the icy blanket, gaze affixed on the quaint village ahead. 

What is this place, what significance does it bear to the Hound for them to spend their life on? He'd thought them uncaring, too preoccupied with their grand hunt in the name of their Allfather, ever searching for challenges to prove their worth. No roots to tie them back. No one to come back to.

Revenant thought - hoped - they were alike. 

Snow crunches under heavy feet, audible enough for him to determine that it's a potential danger - a goliath perhaps, judging by the scarcity of prowlers and by the distance between each step. Animals had encroached upon his hiding spot before, though, given the advantages of lacking any living qualities, Revenant needed not to worry about them finding him among the snow. But then again, there was always the possibility of getting squashed under the weight of the beast, who'd trample him first and foremost if it could not eat him - all of them risks he was willing to take.

But those probabilities and chances get squandered the second something straddles his burrowed form, for once startling him into inaction. Only when a knife sinks between the metal plates of his back, digging to sever his metallic spine, does he react - viciously struggling to overthrow the weight off of his form. His attacker only strengthens their position, hooking their legs around his frame while their knife digs and cuts at circuits. When they succeed at ripping apart one of his protective plates, exposing the inner workings of his mechanisms, Revenant howls. Not in pain - not because of the man who's fisted grip aims to rip him from within; not when his vision flickers and warnings flash through his system, no.

It's the blasted raven, that cursed familiar bird his burning eyes fall upon, perched in its ivory tree, always watching, judging like its owner, looking for weaknesses. Only then does the weight bestriding his figure become apparent, the growls and grunts familiar and it hurts, it fucking hurts to realise that Bloodhound is the one attempting to end his pathetic life. 

And it hurts all the more that he doesn't want to die like this, not when he'd glimpsed a life worth living in their companionship.

"Djöfull," Bloodhound growls through their filters, struggling to detach his backbone. 

_Devil. Bastard_.

And it's the last push to send Revenant over that perilous edge he was teetering on.

With a roar only befit an animal, his shoulders dislocate to angle and contort his arms until one hand twists and clenches in the fabric adorning the hunter. The surprise overcoming his assailant grants him the leverage he needs to fling their weight forward and above him, sending them tumbling through the snow. As Bloodhound rises back to their feet brandishing their fabled hatchet, Revenant reforms himself, metal grinding and shifting back into place. The last limb to reshift is his arm, twisting to unhinge the offending knife still stuck between his circuits. His orbs fixate on the blade, a data knife in fact, as dark thoughts and speculations swarm his mind.

"Why?!" he bellows in the end, throwing the offending weapon at their feet.

He flares his shoulders and sharpens his claws, wills himself to look menacing, a being not to be trifled with - but he only succeeds at deceiving himself. He can see it in their behaviour, the falter in their step, the uncertainty betraying their body language. 

“Are you not here to slátra? Rid them of their obstacles?” they speak, the confusion apparent in their voice.

Revenant only stares in turn, equally confused and irate, "what the hell are you talking about?"

" _Mitt fólkið_! Why then would you be here but to do their bidding?”, they start and their voice tints with anger, “Why then would Hammond send you here, but to uproot my people?" 

There’s a pause. A moment of silence in which they stare at one another - and in that silence, as Bloodhound’s shoulders drop, and their hand comes up between them, he becomes aware of the way his body twitches, the way his chest bobs and heaves _(what for? he can’t breathe anyway)_. It takes Revenant all but five seconds to eventually erupt at the Hound's implication. And the guttural scream arising from his chest like the very bowels of hell sends the hunter scrambling out of their way as he launches himself forward at whatever’s in his path.

He wanted to eviscerate. He wanted to drive his hand into their chest so far it would split their meagre torso in half. But at the very last seconds before falling atop the hunter, he switches targets. Instead of rightfully smiting the Hunter, the simulacrum seethes and wreaks havoc on the woods instead, tearing at the brushes and himself, all the while Bloodhound stares in abject horror, no doubt racked with regret now, but he didn’t care. In a moment of unadulterated anguish, Revenant’s hand morphs into his wicked blade and rips apart the nearest tree, sending wood and bark flying into the cold air. Only when the tree is felled and his anger settled, processors cooling down and mechanisms inside his damaged framework recalibrating to maintain functionality, Revenant falls still. And in this deafening silence that falls upon their shoulders like leaden snow, he can’t help the way in which his mind dwells bitterly upon past moments they shared: the victories they revelled in, the snark double entendres the Hound would laugh at and retort, always with a snap that sent him dreaming for more. All those times, wasted in a breath, one hasty moment to undo the trust he put in them. 

How does one apologise for their mistakes? Would words ever be enough to change this hurt he feels coursing through his synthetic limbs? Would they be enough to convey the shame humbling the hunter? 

Would he care?

"Revenant-"

_Can we work it out?_

"I came here for you," he hisses, "I came here, because I was for once worried something might have been wrong," the venom drips from each word, "you were gone, and I couldn't find you. I thought they took you, I thought Hammond claimed the last thing I gave a damn about." Revenant stops before his anger overcomes him. But in a last act of malice, mustering all the steel his voice could carry, he mutters. "You only see me as their weapon. No matter how hard I try to erase their influence, I am nothing more than a machine doing their bidding."

_We scream and shout till we work it out_

"No, félagi fighter, " they retort, approaching, "it was I who was mistaken. I thought.. _nei_ , I was blinded by my worries. I sought to find a culprit to taka my wrath upon. It was dishonourable," they whisper heavy with sorrow. 

_Can we just work it out?_

With startling speed, Revenant’s claw-like hand wraps around the hunter's throat, a clear threat that would have any normal man pleading and struggling for their life. But even as his grip tightens and threatens to cut off their air, Bloodhound remains composed, even as their form is dragged closer to his skeletal face until there's nothing but his glaring eyes bedazzling them through their goggles. 

"Am I still your _felagi fighter_ , when your life hangs in my grasp?" Revenant mocks in a low voice, eye level with their dangling form. 

_We scream and shout till we work it out?_

His hold is nearly crushing. If he were to tighten just a little more, apply a little pressure here and shift his thumb this way, Revenant could snap their neck; lord only knows how many times he's done this before, how many lives he's ended this way alone. But he's bent on seeing them squirm and beg for their life, he wants the humiliation, the pleading through choked gasps and the frivolous struggle. What he wouldn't give to see the Hunter begging in his hands, to see the hunter pay _(for what? for breaking his heart? making him feel things he hasn't felt in centuries, things he maybe never felt at all?)_.

All his expectations are subverted however, when the Hound remains limp, perhaps intentionally so to spite his growing ire. The only reaction he gets out of them is when their bird, always that damn bird, swoops down and tangles itself in his batik, ever trying to get his attention away from its master. Revenant remains unflinching, even when the bird pecks his orbs and flutters in his face. 

Perhaps the Hound feels the anger and threat radiating off of his body, perhaps an inkling of fear courses through their veins when he snarls and the fingers on his other hand twitch with clear intent. Some perverted satisfaction courses through his system when his receptors pick up the crinkle of leathery gloves clenching around their hatchet - but it is not the weapon that is raised in defence.

An open palm, a sign of peace? 

He scoffs, a deep drawn out laugh rumbling out of his chest. How pathetic, the best of them all surrendering without a fight. 

But as the bird halts in its movements, merely tilting its head to observe its master, Revenant realizes that their action had nothing but their companion's interest in mind; no act of surrender, no retaliation. 

Ah, how very sure they are, their sound judgment in his actions. The faith they put in him is foolish; but, he guesses, they're right to think he'd let them go. After all, he's _dying_ just to hear their woes, to know why they were so hellbent on ending him over some skin bags.

As fast as his hand clamped around their throat, so it releases, dropping Bloodhound back on their wobbly feet. When they straighten and shift their attention back to his face, he gives them something he's never given anyone else before.

"Explain. _Now_." 

A second chance.

* * *

Time on Talos flows differently - the days seem longer while the nights grow ever colder. It always seemed strange how matches on World's Edge felt eternal, the days unending as they trudged through snow and lava alike. When dawn breaks through the snow-clad trees and the forest springs to life once more, Revenant realizes that he's spent more than 48 hours freezing his robotic ass in the snow. Were it not for Wraith's voice crackling through his comms system and asking in the most disinterested way whether he was dead yet, he would have spent longer listening to the Hound's honeyed words.

He expected a divide to form between them but Bloodhound, of course, the ever-patient and eloquent Bloodhound that always has a reasoning behind their every action, explains the error of their ways, ever respectful to his wounded pride and broken trust. Even as he behaved like an animal, fingers twitching at his sides ready to grab and tear into flesh, he listened. He did not care for their words, no, not after the blatant disrespect his ego suffered - his mind was near made up on the prospect of spilling blood and evisceration. But his snarl caught in his throat, his body tensed like a coil ready to snap when the word _Hammond_ filtered through their mask, and with its suddenty hitting him like a hammer through a cracked mirror, he listened then, eyes affixed to obsidian goggles.

_"The Harvester will ruin this world, as it has ruined plenty before. Mitt fólkið, they are simple people. They will not give up their homes, their way of living, for nothing. Hammond has tried to buy them off, but I fear they will do worse to forcibly remove them."_

The simulacrum recollects the events, dissecting each word, each little detail. 

Bloodhound's tone had stayed neutral then, even when the words leaving their mouth had burned and bled them with their implications; but the hitch in their breath and the tension squaring their shoulders were all subtle details not lost to him. 

Wraith's voice resonates across the hollowness of their ship, wrenching him back to the present, and it takes him a few minutes to register the vitriolic words addressed to him. He doesn't deign to answer her prying questions, nor react to her harsh threats if anything were to befall the Hunter over this encounter few knew of, to begin with. With no retorts to prompt an argument, though the Ghost would not have carried on, her words are swallowed up by the rumble of engines, working to take them back on Solace. 

The two legends stew in silence, each consumed by their own guilts and memories. While his body burns with muted anger, his fans awaken in a desperate attempt to cool his systems down lest they overheat. It's only natural to still be angry at the hunter, with how they very nearly ended his existence over a misunderstanding. The hurt experienced could not compare to anything a selfish being like himself has ever felt before. Though, staring at the heirloom in his hand, taking in the intricate details, Revenant believes that it is a step in the right direction. 

_"I am not worthy of it, oh, please."_

Revenant wishes he still had eyelids, for his eyes would roll to the back of his head as he relives the moment, seeing their humbled form and pleading tone. He would die to see it once more. Perhaps he ought to put them in their place more often, shame is such a beautiful shade befitting them. The pleased hum slithering past his metal lips is lost to the roar of machinery. 

Yes, some things are worth dying over.

From across the small ship, strapped in her seat, Wraith watches him fiddle with the hatchet and test the sharpness of the blade. The deep frown etched onto her porcelain face is beautiful, and he revels in the dark thoughts most likely plaguing her mind as she assumes he did the worst. Were it not for Bloodhound accompanying him back to the ship and reassuring her that they were safe and returning in a few days, Wraith would have, without a doubt, gutted him.

_"Take it, for I have dishonoured you. I will shed blood and honour you and the Allfather. Only then will I be worthy again."_

While his hand flips the weapon in repetitive motions, so do thoughts spin through his head; he finds his thoughts gravitating back towards Hound, towards their woes and their conflicting actions tormenting his feelings; all the while his fingers work in tandem with his inner gears, revisiting those last moments before they parted. 

_"They are a stubborn people. They will face their ends under the Allfather's eye and dine in Valhal with honour. I am proud of them. But I am also... terrified."_

Bloodhound's gaze had fallen on him then, lingering on his visage for what felt like an eternity - and while he stared back, silently judging their actions, Revenant understood the worries overcoming them; that quiet sort of desperation one resorts to when there's nothing else to lose. He was well acquainted with it.

_"If I were not a Legend, they would have rid themselves of us by now. But I complicate things. It would bring bad publicity when they already struggle to erase their past misdeeds. I am a smear upon their innovative wonders."_

Revenant shifts his hand, turning to look at the symbol upon the back of his hand. Even in the poor lighting, the H stands out glaringly against the worn metal of his chassis. Even if his body would rust, bend, break and disintegrate, the symbol will continue to exist; forever a brand upon his soul. 

A smear upon their innovative wonders.

His fingers clench as his burning gaze fixates upon the ghost, whose icy eyes, in turn, stare daggers at him through the dark.

Perhaps he underestimated them all. Perhaps he wasn't alone on his hellish crusade across the Outlands.

The enemy of his enemy is his friend. And Hammond - with its Syndicate lackeys - has a lot of enemies.

* * *

Eventually, he falls back into a familiar routine of competing in matches, downtimes in the shadows, and fulfilling his murderous agenda in his spare time - vivaciously so, now that he's got more justifiable reasons to play Death for the skin bags. 

But he'd be lying if he didn't admit that things were - _felt_ \- different. Coming back to the compound after long gruelling matches felt rewarding; seeing his teammates happy post-victory did not make him want to snuff the light out of their eyes anymore, even if he ended up doing all the work. 

It's not easy for him to talk. Truth be told it's not easy for him to do anything remotely human. But, bit by bit, he opens up: to his teammates, colleagues outside matches, and perhaps the most baffling thing of them all, he does it all unprovoked. 

Sometimes, he'd lean in just the slightest when Gibraltar would pat him on the back, his boisterous personality infectious. Other times he'd let Lifeline fuss over him, insisting she'd give him a check-up once a month even if she hated his guts and everything he stood for - his crimes evoking too many conflicted feelings of her own blood-soaked legacy. And sometimes, just a bit, he'd ease up on frightening Mr. Witt into oblivion.

Sure, his terrifying demeanour doesn't cease to intimidate, neither do his death threats or the constant horrifying aura he seems to exude everywhere he goes, but - sometimes, he uses that same aura to scar undesirable people bothering Ms. Paquette with prying questions of her father's death; or sometimes, he simply lingers in the training room, soaking in the stares and the conversations. One would think he might be going soft for the skin bags, finally taking a liking to them as they all do to the MRVN. 

Or maybe it's the other way around and he's like the old noxious man, who seems to unwillingly attract all the stray 'daddy-issues' kiddies to him?

Revenant hopes to whatever God there is that the latter is not the case.

He loathes admitting that he actually... likes them. No, scratch that - he tolerates them. He tolerates their presence, for they are useful to him. The hacker, in particular, has become something akin to a friend to him - unwillingly really, and most likely a one-sided 'friendship', for he's pretty sure Crypto doesn't see him as a friend, even though they both use each other enough to warrant a degree of acquaintance. 

The hunter, on the other hand... one could say that they had fallen from his graces. To be exact, he wasn't holding anything against them, even though to others it might have seen that he had a personal vendetta with the way he obsessively sought out the other in matches and at times, forfeited his team's victory to brutalize the tracker. He understood their paranoia and fear, he knew all too well that deep-seated hatred he only reserved for the ones that made him. While their attack and mistrust in him did hurt his ego, it didn't deter him from seeking their company - albeit, in different ways.

Emerging from the shadows beneath the buildings, he stealthily makes his way towards where he’s roughly downed their teammate earlier. His teammate skin bags have died fighting against them, but not without dealing their fair share of damage in turn. He finds them, in the end, huddled between a supply bin and a crate, fumbling with a needle in an attempt to revive their fallen comrade - a rookie mistake, really, foregoing their own safety for their brethren's health. When their head swivels around upon feeling his presence, it's already too late. The hatchet is held above him, and when their mask tilts to behold his unholy visage, it comes down against their throat like an executioner's axe on the chopping block. 

In those last moments, as they choke on their blood and struggle to breathe through the suffocatingly hot air, Revenant crouches over them and drinks in their handy work. 

"Look into my eyes," the words rumble in his chest. _I want to remember this_ , he wants to say, but freezes when he spots his own hellish reflection in their fiery spectacles, his burning eyes staring back at him. 

A hush falls over the Dome as Bloodhound dies amongst their fallen fighters. Their last breath swallowed by the bubbling lava. Their heirloom reunited with them. 

Perhaps, he muses while sitting amidst the cooling bodies, he was never angry with them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. There, something stirs beneath his carcass, something dead and long forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this is getting out of hand and my beta reader just yelled at me to post this here while it's still sorta relevant to the game events
> 
> BUT IM NOT DONE YET-
> 
> so yeah this is 3 chapters now, sorry, i have no control over my life and this fact is reflected in my writing

_“But here’s a little secret for you: no one is ever the same thing again after anything. You are never the same twice, and much of your unhappiness comes from trying to pretend that you are. Accept that you are different each day and do so joyfully, recognizing it for the gift it is. Work within the desires and goals of the person you are currently, until you aren’t that person anymore, and everything changes once again.”_  
— Welcome to Night Vale, Episode 75, “Through the Narrow Place”

* * *

_Andrade._

Now that's a name he hasn't thought of in a long time. It took him a while to remember it, to remember the fear in dear old daddy's eyes just before he snapped his neck and dropped him down that elevator shaft. 

She's got those same eyes, only instead of fear, there's hatred in them. 

Good. He hasn't had someone waving their gun in his face and screaming about vengeance and their poor poor family he didn't care to spare in a very long time. Something tells him this is going to be good, this one's going places. After all, none of them had succeeded in terminating him before, none unearthed what she had done in a couple of hours.

Though most notably of all, none had ever put a bullet in his head then sunk him amongst the bones and ruins of a town.

Yes, if there was someone who could _really_ kill him, it'd be her - but she'd be an idiot if she thinks he'd hand his head down on a plate for her.

An eel (is it even an eel? all fish look the same to him, slimy and gross) slithers past his skull after deeming his body unsuitable to pick at. From his current vantage point, buried beneath the remains of a doorframe and corrugated metal, he can make out the other... 'hims' - hollowed husks with empty eyes, some fortunate enough to be crushed in the ensuing chaos while others lay discarded, making up a terrifying visage for the aquatic sea life. 

While he waits for his systems to reboot, his consciousness to fully upload inside a different prison, Revenant looks upon the ruins. Somehow, when his eyes fall upon his old self, crumbled beneath the giant rib of some prehistoric lizard, he feels - sad. This indiscernible melancholy washes through his systems at the sight of what he used to be, what he still is, what he will always be from now on until the end of days. 

Sand seeps through the crevices of his frame and spills through his fingers when he hoists himself out of his grave, pushing aside metal and debris alike to free himself of this nightmare. He never liked swimming in open waters. Something about that looming horizon, that never-ending stretch of water that could house abysmal horrors, filled him with unspeakable dread; pairing that with that time he'd drowned, caught much like he was now, albeit beneath the wreckage of a sinking ship, made him despise the act of swimming. In the end, whether he liked it or not, he could not swim - his metallic skeletal frame was unfortunately not buoyant enough for him to do so. 

Thus, Revenant begins the long arduous process of dragging himself towards the nearest shore, each step like a walk through the desert. Amidst the ruins, he stops to regard his old carcass, near impossible to recognise where it not for the vibrant red of his old headscarf floating around in parts. He pries at the bone, tries to dig his fingers underneath the weight as best as he can, but it's to no use. No amount of effort on his part would budge the gargantuan weight. So with great annoyance, Revenant resolves to pull whatever he can from the wreckage until a good portion of the ripped fabric floats in his hands. 

The sadness twisting in his chest is overwhelming. He will guard this earthly remnant, this last piece of his old self, with all of his lives. 

In life, in death, and solitude - as he's always done so, alone.

But when he claws his way up onto the rocks, when his body breaks the surface of the water, it takes him a good few seconds to re-orient himself and find that he is not in fact, alone.

The Hound stands amongst the ruins and the rocks, an immovable statue. When his eyes meet their goggles, he's got the feeling they've been silently scrutinizing his struggles for a while now. Revenant finds himself tense, claws digging into rock and clenching around the tattered fabric as the waves beat relentlessly against him. 

What could be going through their head, he wonders. Did they judge his past actions unworthy now? What else did they expect from someone such as him?

His eyes frantically search their mask, hungry for any reaction, any cue to let him know what they thought for he can't stand this silence, he can't stand knowing they would judge him despicable now when he's tried so hard to change. The roars of waves crashing against stones inundate his sensors, but this stillness is what kills him more, what eats him from inside as he wants to open up his maw and scream himself to death, to drown this deafening white noise-

A gloved hand extends in front of him, so close to his face that it startles him out of his dread-filled thoughts. In the time in which he pondered his crimes and tribulations, Bloodhound had brought themselves closer. Their kneeling form before them is a strange sight, something he had pictured a thousand times before but not like this, not with this gentleness that shouldn't be reserved to him.

"Come, _afturganga_ ," their voice is but a mere gentle whisper, the sweet call of a siren promising his doom wrapped in tender safety. 

And he accepts, clothed hand encasing their leathered one, anchoring back to shore.

* * *

"Will you take me out, felagi fighter?"

"We're on the same team, unfortunately," Revenant retorts in a heartbeat.

That chuckle he loves to hear filters through Hound's mask and he sighs; a content sigh hidden by exertion as he climbs up and nestles himself into a crevice only a skittering rat such as him could get into.

"As much as I love to shed blood with you for the Allfather, I was thinking of something else," their voice trails off, to which Revenant shifts his attention to study them. He finds Bloodhound's mask trained on him, a neutral face that somehow still manages to convey expectancy.

After too much silence and an awkward point where he sort of rolls his shoulders in a vague question-answer, Hound thankfully drops them a hint.

"Would you like to go out?"

The question hits him like one of Pathfinder's boxing gloves to the face. He's so thrown back by it that he visibly flinches and slips off of the cliffs he perched himself upon to scout. If someone were to behold them from afar, they'd look absolutely ridiculous - two idiots fumbling against each other while hanging precariously over a high drop. 

When he composes himself enough to make sure he isn't going to fall and potentially compromise their position to any passersby, Revenant turns to stare incredulously at the hunter.

"Like - like a date?" he hears himself ask, voice full of confusion and something else. Thank whoever is out there that he can't possibly form any expression, he'd probably look like a star-struck idiot right now with the way he gawks at the hunter.

"Yes," Bloodhound answers, not taking their eyes away from the scope of their Kraber, trained on the fight which started in some of the close quarters in Capacitor.

Their shot rings loudly in the open area, followed by a displeased grunt on their part as they miss their target by a few inches when they disappear in a sea of smoke and gas. They reload their weapon while an airstrike is called in retaliation upon their location, albeit a few good meters off from its intended target. All the while Revenant fervently imagines and ponders over the semantics of their offer.

Has he ever been on a date before? He panics briefly, trying to remember when was the last time he thought he could go on dates. What was he even going to do? He doesn't even have any nice clothes.

 _Downed a hostile andskoti,_ Bloodhound mutters in the background but he's too absorbed with overthinking the grand event. 

What do you do on dates? You drink, you dance, you maybe murder a little and.. what else? 

Oh. Oh shit.

"Are we going to fuck?" he blurts out in a high voice, just before he gets shot in the head for a second time that week.

* * *

"Hey, turn that frown upside down!" Gibraltar's voice booms through the roaring music, to which he can't help but groan in response, even more so when the mountain of a man pats him on the back and nearly topples him out of his stool. His eyes follow the legend’s retreating form into the sea of moving bodies with a murderous glare, just before he returns his glowering attention to the barman.

Mirage shoots him a strained smile from behind the bar - his bar, right - before he ducks away to tend to a quiet Wraith for the thousandth time tonight; an excuse to be anywhere but there, with him. A good move, given that he was already picturing strangling the life out of him if he offered to make him another blasted appletini or whatever other disgusting things skinsuits consumed these days. 

When he's alone once more - or rather, as alone as one can be in a bar packed with partying, sweaty, disgusting bodies - Revenant resumes his sulking, already planning his escape out of the legends' clutches. 

This was **not** the date he expected. To think that he even wore his cleanest loincloth for this. What a waste.

God, he should have realised that it was going to be anything but what he envisioned the second he saw Bloodhound talking to a couple of the other skin bags in the common room, all dressed up in flashy casual clothes, just a few minutes prior to their gathering. An even bigger giveaway would have been Lifeline, who smirked at him and commented on his participation in their outing - _their_ outing, like it was hers as well. 

Sure, he may have briefly entertained the idea of a _Mirage-à-trois_ , as that buffoon called it, surprised by the extra person; but when that person turned into two, then three, then six? Well, call him old fashioned, but he drew the line at six skinsuits. 

Across the bar, towards his left, Pathfinder waves at him excitedly. He responds in kind by flipping him off, and in turn, their display floods with pink hearts and a happy face. The pained groan leaving him gets swallowed by the loud music and the cheering crowd. Why is the robot here? What the fuck does he need in a bar? 

Why is _he_ here?

Oh, right, the date. 

What a disillusioned idiot he is, thinking himself courted and fawned over. Him, the simulacrum, the nobody. How could he imagine someone like Bloodhound, someone who goes hunting for actual food and hauls back some monstrous thing with their bloody hands, how could he think someone like that would want to go on a date? Why did he even entertain the idea? What part of him still clung to such silly ideas, such human gestures he longed to experience again? (did he ever experience them anyway?)

That shot to the head must have messed him up more than he thought, more than how dying usually messed him up. 

From between the fingers on his hand, shielding his eyes away while he desperately fights this headache he thought himself unable to develop, Revenant steals furtive glances at the crowd as he tries to think of the best way to sneak out of here unnoticed. Not exactly a hard feat to pull off, what with the other patrons he could easily trail, or the many shadowed corners in the bar he could stick to. But both the MRVN and Octane have been continuously pestering him all night, checking up and trying to rope him into their increasingly crazier plans, thwarting any escape routes he was cooking up. 

Perhaps the worst thing of all is that Bloodhound is nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into the crowd a few moments after their arrival. 

There's virtually no reason for him to stick around. If he got up just then, marched his ass out that door, no one would have stopped him; dare say, no one would have had the courage to stop the murderous robot. 

And yet, he stays, fingers fiddling with the sharp point of a cocktail umbrella he snagged off of one of the many drinks Mirage prepared throughout the night, looking downright pathetic in his corner of the bar. 

Several times, he locks eyes with Wraith, who toasts him with a smirk when she notices his sullen look and sunken form. Perhaps she's sympathetic to his plight? Or maybe she's just having fun at his expense? Either way, he swats his hand at her and looks away after his death glares fail to wipe that smug look off of her face. 

What is this feeling washing over him? Embarrassment? When was the last time he felt embarrassed? How many lifetimes has it been?

A memory resurfaces from the depths of his circuits, and vaguely, he recalls a time when he actively went out, when he relished in the comfort of close acquaintances.

There was a woman _(what was her name? who was she?)_ , and they were at a bar much like they are now. Only they were drinking _(was he? could he?)_ , celebrating some event he can't quite remember. He recalls her face, her full lips and long hair always held up, recalls the glasses she would wear and how blind she'd be without them. The sound of her voice is lost to him, lost to time, as are most of his past conversations. All but one, one conversation, leaving him flustered and embarrassed much as he felt now, all the while she laughed, this warm and infectious laugh that did nothing but make him burn for the rest of that night.

He turns to look to his right, expecting to see her face smiling back at him; but no one greets him back. 

Instead, somebody settles at his other side, the weight of a hand comes resting on his forearm. Somehow, with a strange certainty he didn't think he could possess, he knows that Bloodhound's visage will greet him at his side.

"You seemed lifetimes away, _afturganga_ ," they say, their voice a touch raised over the background music playing through the bar.

 _I was thinking of ghosts_ , he aches to say, but instead mutters, "you left me alone."

Slowly, Hound's hand slides down his arm until it mirrors his own, placed on the bar. They settle in their seat, quiet and calm, a different ghost amidst a sea of moving bodies. 

"Forgive me," a bow of their head, "I had unfinished business to attend to, my apologies." A pause then as Mirage makes his way back to them, albeit still a bit apprehensive of his presence. 

While the Hunter takes their time speaking with the barman, deciding on drinks and catching up on missed events, so does Revenant take this opportunity to shift his weary limbs. He turns to the crowd, leaning back and tuning out the conversations, tuning out most other sounds. The music stays upbeat, a mix of synths and bass, and other things he's probably too old to know or care for, but it too becomes nothing but background noise, into this incessant white noise filling the void inside his head.

Somewhere in the crowd, Lifeline dances, lost in the rhythm. His orbs linger on her form, drawn to her movements, but it's not her he sees. He's thinking of another life again, another failure and yet another waste. 

How many more is it going to take?

Bloodhound joins him in surveying the crowd, drink in hand. When he turns to look at them, he's expecting to see them unmasked, enjoying their drink, but what greets him instead nearly has him slip out of his chair in surprise.

"Are you shitting me?" he asks, half amused and half just flabbergasted. 

The chimes on their headpiece swivel when they cock their head. He can't hear them laugh, but he knows they did, he just knows it in his bones. They toast their drink, a green cocktail he's mildly curious about, before they resume sipping the contents through the extra-long and curly straw Mirage provided them with, to which one end disappears through a port in their mask. 

"Do you ever take off that mask? Or is it _really_ a part of you?" Revenant asks, leaning closer in to drink in their presence. 

"Sometimes, though I enjoy messing with people curious about what lies beneath it," they finish their drink, and when they turn back to the bar, Revenant is surprised to find another one waiting for them. 

Mirage already works on wiping out a third, well acquainted with Hound's habits.

"Do any of yours ever come off?" he hears them ask while they reach for a second glass.

"No."

A thoughtful hum is their only answer as they continue idly sipping their drink, content on watching the crowd throughout the night. 

He's unaware how much time passes while they just sit there, watching the various patrons in comfortable companionship. The only indication that time continues to flow remains recorded through the changes in music, which have shifted from jarring beats to somewhat calmer tunes - a welcomed change to all active dancers and minglers who have taken this opportunity to grab a drink or two and unwind at the bar. 

Be it his hatred towards skinsuits or the shrinkage of his personal space, Revenant finds himself drawn closer to the Hunter, up until he can feel their textured parka against him, up until their feathered mantle brushes against his upper forearm and elicits an involuntary shiver from their systems. Although this lack of privacy would usually cause him to violently erupt, he finds, for once, his anger placated, all the more so when Bloodhound tilts their head and their headgear bonks against his arm.

Still, he mutters and complains, dissatisfied even if they wish they could stay like this forever.

"This isn't what I expected."

"Oh? What did you expect?" their voice drips like honey, mirth and curiosity intoxicating if not frustrating.

"A candlelight dinner, some dead carcass on the table while we fuck in its bloody remains, and you scream my name like I'm your Allfather," he half jests while a part of him legitimately envisions such a macabre possibility.

"Ah." 

There's a long pause where he debates whether his confession was a bit too much, but then they reciprocate in equal humour, "apologies, but I only do that on the third date," and Revenant snorts so loud it startles the nearby patrons. 

"Look at you," he leans in further, sliding an arm behind their back "didn't know you were this fun at parties."

"You should see me after nine of these," Bloodhound toasts their third glass, "I may take you up on that candlelight dinner then."

"I'll make sure I do," he draws out his voice a few octaves lower, leaning closer to their mask. He doesn't expect Hound to lean away from him, for he knows them well enough as someone never backing down from any danger - so instead he inches closer, close enough to tower over them (and topple where it for some smartass thinking they could push them closer). What he doesn't expect is their drink shoved in his face, green liquid sloshing around in a tall glass and nearly splashing across his faceplate. 

"Care for a drink?" they ask, disregarding the awkwardness of their positions, disregarding his dangerous advances.

Briefly, the thought of taking their straw and savouring the aftertaste of their lips and drink crosses through his mind, but he envisions the mess that would occur when the liquid would simply pour through the crevices in his imperfect body, and that thought alone is enough to put him off when he realises just how much he'd look like an oversized idiotic toddler gurgling on his own spit.

Instead, ever so slowly, their hand wraps over the top part of their glass, long digits brushing against their gloved hands and clinking upon the fragile surface. The glaring reflection of his orbs in their goggles greets him back, burning fire drowned into blood. While his eyes remain trained on them, a digit slowly sinks inside the contents of their glass, swirling the liquid and brushing against the sides ever so deliberately with agonizing slowness and perhaps, a show of dominance he wishes to convey. When his face parts in two, split between his upper and lower lips, he gets a curious reaction from the hunter. A tilt of their head and the subtle shift in their body, inching ever closer, tells him that he's got their interest. With fascination, Bloodhound watches him dip his finger on the bottom inside of his mouth, palpating across the surface where he retains old ports still functioning as taste buds.

And then the taste of bitter alcohol hits him, sweet bubbly champagne and horrible absinthe.

"This is disgusting," he audibly gags as he hurriedly removes his digit from his open maw, "What the fuck are you drinking?"

"Death in the afternoon," they answer, but their voice is full of wonder and maybe just a bit of amusement. They lean back in their seat to better study him, sipping the remainder of their drink at an alarmingly fast rate, all the while Revenant poorly tries to erase the taste of that horrible concoction from his sensors. 

"’Taste's like death, alright," he snidely comments once he regains his composure.

"You can taste things."

A dismissive grunt is his only answer, though he's quite pleased to elicit such interest from his desired audience. With feigned disinterest, Revenant surveys the crowd, now once more filling the empty spaces with their dancing forms. Somewhere amongst the bodies, Lifeline glows and sways to the slow and steady rhythms. He settles on watching her for a while, captivated by her form, but a foot insistently taps against his shin, slowly demanding his attention.

His pleasure further grows when Bloodhound leans their whole body into his seated form, upturned head inching closer to his face. 

"What else can you do?" their mask brushes against the side of his shawl.

When he turns to face them, hand settling over their own resting one atop the bar, he answers their burning curiosity. 

"I'll tell you everything your little heart desires," his voice draws on tantalisingly, "but only if you let me buy you a proper drink first."

* * *

Loba Andrade proves to be more of a thorn into his side than he expected her to be. In just a few days, maybe a week tops, she's managed to ruin all the progress he's made towards gaining the skinsuits' reluctant trust. 

Well, there goes all those months, thrown out the ship's disposal chute, just like that. 

To think that he'd gotten Lifeline - who somehow still managed to look down at him even though he's infinitely taller than her - to tolerate his presence and share her music with him, she who does not put on a show for just about any undeserving fool? He could just about wring someone's neck out in frustration, knowing that he wouldn't be able to squeeze out any more invaluable information from her that easily again. 

They all avoid him like the plague. Well, all but Pathfinder really, and that fact alone frustrates him even more.

True, he didn't quite make his case any better in their eyes, what with how he stalked Wattson's unconscious form for several nights from the vents. Or how he could have maybe prevented Octane from getting his prosthetic legs violently ripped apart from his mortal and frail body if he only acted out from the shadows and scared him off from his stupid plan.

But what was he supposed to do? Grovel in self-pity and beg for their acceptance? He'd sooner rip off his own head than do any such things. Though, a part of him would drop down on his knees and do just that if it meant it would get Bloodhound to even _look_ at him again.

Are they truly angry with them? Surely they would understand where he was coming from - they weren't that different from each other after all. 

And yet, Bloodhound continues to avoid him, pursuing those blasted pieces of some relic for that, that insufferable woman he can't bring himself to hate. 

How could he, when she promises eternal rest. 

But on the other hand, the promise of eternal bloodshed, intrigue and companionship from one so captivating as the Hound torments him. 

_And after all this time_

Does he want to die?

No matter. The girl wouldn't be able to get her hands on his source code any time soon. For now, he still has time. One way or another, he's going to get his claws on the object of his desires, he will do so until the very last grains of sand in his hourglass have trickled down.

* * *

New legends aren't a rare sight to behold. What is truly rare is a legend that manages to last for more than a week before they either give their last breath or go insane (PTSD? trauma? HA. no, they're driven crazy by Mirage's incessant yapping).

Whenever there is someone new, he's learned that it's customary to go through the training grounds: learn the ropes, test out their capabilities and generally hone their skills before they’re thrown headfirst off the dropship and into battle. 

What he doesn't quite understand is why Bloodhound is the one that seemingly has to teach and prepare the runts. The games were all about survival of the fittest, proving your worth and resilience and yada-yada, whatever raked in the most money for the hungry syndicate fucks sitting on their asses and revelling in the bloodshed from the comfort of their cushy lives. If you couldn't last by yourself, then your end was swift and deserved. 

For him, it's as simple as that. A mantra that has kept him at the top of the game in life, and in death.

And yet, as he stalks from the upper rocks lining one of the entranceways of the firing range, he doesn't watch them with indifference. Rather, anger seems to taint his disposition, and he can't quite grasp why exactly he finds himself filled with so much murderous intent. 

When he begins his steady and silent descent amongst the rocks and sand, Bloodhound shows the latest fellow competitor how to manoeuvre around the ping system. He's close enough to snatch Bloodhound by their collar and suffocate them if he wishes to, but he remains cloaked instead, sulking behind rocks and listening into their training. While the runt struggles with the weight of a Spitfire they picked, Revenant shimmies closer, careful not to draw Hound's attention. He lingers longer, soaking in the scorching sun while the master teaches the pupil how to handle their weapon in a steady voice, meticulously instructing the basics with a patience to rival any well-trained soldier out there. But, as much as he would love to listen to the hunter's voice explain things he's familiar with, he lacks the necessary patience and disposition for it now. 

Thus, when he hears Bloodhound begin explaining the respawn system and how each participant's safety is assured thanks to it, he can't help the wicked thought crossing through his mind.

So naturally, he crawls out of his little crevice like the snake he is, slithers silently behind the newbie as careful as he can as to not alert the master of his intentions and does the one thing he excels at: thrusts his blade through their back in one fell swoop.

The newcomer sputters blood and chokes for a little while, and before life drains out of their eyes he whispers to their dying form "here, let me show you how it works."

When he flicks their cooling corpse off of his blade and it crumbles into dust, he stops to drink in the blood coating his hand before his orbs flicker to Hound's mask, searching for their reaction. To their credit, Bloodhound had remained unmoving throughout the whole ordeal, perhaps the only discernible reaction had been the casual crossing of their arms as they assessed his rash acts.

"What, no words? Did I spook the mighty hunter into inaction?" he mocks in a low voice feigning care. 

But they only shake their head, this slow disappointed shake that further infuriates an already ticking bomb. 

They disregard him altogether as they opt to kneel and retrieve their comrade's banner from the scattering dust. Before their fingers could wrap around the pad displaying their details, however, his foot comes settling atop the banner, nearly crushing their digits were it not for their quick reflexes. Eventually, the banner gets shattered underneath the steady pressure of his frame, and there, when there is nothing left for the hunter to retrieve, he finally gets a response.

It's subtle, but there's a certain tension - no, alertness? - in the other's stance when they straighten back up. The sort of attentiveness you'd attribute to a prowling predator, and he finds it exhilarating. 

"Was that necessary?" they ask, the seriousness in their tone betrayed by the drawl of their words.

"What better way for them to learn?" he retorts, raising his shoulders oh so innocently. 

That gets a snort out of them before their mask falls back into place, "Yes, I believe you'd know that best from experience."

_Touché._

In a deliberately slow gait, Revenant paces in front of the hunter, eyes never leaving their goggles. 

"Playing the teacher now, Hound? Thought you were busy fetching toys for your Mistress."

"Perhaps," they mirror his movement until they find themselves locked in a slow dance, circling one another, "Curious what I have brought back?"

He scoffs, a low noise from his voice box, "You think I care what you do for the girl? How you all pathetically grovel at her feet?"

"Ahhh," they sigh, tone lighter, " _öfund_. Jealous then?".

He can't help the involuntary spasm of his body, the twitch in his blood-stained limb at the mere implication that he could be (how dare they read him so well?) jealous over such frivolities. But as if reading his inner processings and knowing just how to snuff out his short fuse, they carry on.

"If you wish to train, you only need to ask, _elskan._ "

_Ah._

And there it is. There, something stirs beneath his carcass, something dead and long forgotten. 

_Els-kan._

The word is dissected and chewed up, devoured and stored for him to later play and replay for a thousand times and more, until he may very well inevitably corrode into dust. 

"Let us play a simple game, _afturganga_ ," they beckon him with a slow hand while his mind slowly whirrs back to the present, "We shall battle, no weapons but our fists, and if you succeed in felling me, I will tell you allt."

"What makes you think I care about your affairs with the girl?" he's quick to dismiss their offer, "What makes you think I don't already _know_ everything?"

"What comes next then?" Bloodhound’s voice booms through the sand infested hills, thunders in each crack of stone and crevice of his body when he flinches back. "What lies in the Afterlife? What happens once all the fires are burnt? Where does _ást_ go, once it is gone?" 

_And where do we go?_

"Tell me, what hides behind our masks, Revenant?" they murmur, and this question alone stops the train of derisive thoughts sitting at the tip of his tongue. 

Now here's a thought that often plagued him: what _does_ hide behind the mask? What hides behind his own?

"If it's a brawl you want, you won't stand a chance, Hound," his tone is mocking, if for the simple thought of imagining the hunter try and take down his monumental figure, "you'll break your hands trying to tickle me; not that I care about it," he's quick to add.

"Do not worry for me, _afturganga_ ," their voice is light and sweet, the warmth seeping through their mask intoxicating enough to cause him to let his guard down, shift his stance and saunter closer. 

"You'll have to catch me first."

His eyes flicker - a reflexive blink from past habits - as he tries to process the words, but this small hesitation on his part is all the time Bloodhound needs to evade his startled form and grasping claws, fumbling to grab at the shape before him.

And then he's left in the settling dust, fingers still twitching around empty air while the hunter's figure steadily gains distance on him.

Seconds trickle by while his thoughts swim inside his hollow skull. He'd expected Bloodhound to set some boundaries, maybe bring out some rules that he would not have respected in their fight but, this? - he did not expect. 

Good. It's good. 

He dreamed many nights of swapping their roles of prey and predator. He longed to hunt the hunter. 

Revenant flexes each claw upon his hands, disjoints and relocates each shoulder and gradually, each limb. All the while his eyes never leave Hound's slowed retreating form, who's turned to cast them a challenging look and a curt salute from the charge-tower on the opposite side of the arena.

Good. They had a good enough headstart. 

And then, when he launches himself on all fours, sinking claws into the sand and rocks and gaining back the distance the hunter has put between them with terrifying speed, he feels his body surge with this immeasurable satisfaction when they spot how their body tenses. 

Good. 

This is going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> r/relationship advice  
> MY (NB-???) BOYFRIEND (S-300) HAS STABBED MY PUPIL IN THE HEART JUST NOW. HOW DO I TAME HIM?


End file.
